


Daybreak Alley

by SizzlerSunflower



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: 50s au, Alfred Hitchcock (references), Alternate Universe-50's, Attempted Murder, Detective Cases, Developing Relationship, F/M, M/M, Murder Mystery, Newspapers, Plot Twists, Reporters, Romance, Spying, Teamwork, Undercover, Windows - Freeform, unlikely relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-06-12 12:40:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15340071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SizzlerSunflower/pseuds/SizzlerSunflower
Summary: This is inspired by Alfred Hitchcock's 'Rear Window', set in the 50's.Waylon, a journalist working for the Mount Massive Globe Gazette, is a homebody with a quirk: window watching. After a bloody murder happens in his apartment complex, every resident becomes a suspect. With no evidence of the happenings there, and an encounter with an 'odd' tailor, the journalist and his companions will go through hell and back (with allies, enemies, and much trouble to come). What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Mack the Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You know when that shark bites_  
>  _With his teeth, babe ___  
>  _Scarlet billows ___  
>  _Start to spread ___  
>  _Fancy gloves, though ___  
>  _Wears ol' Macheath, babe ___  
>  _So there's never, never a trace of red" ___  
> Updated: 6/8/19

_Humid _, to say the least.__

The hustle and bustle of Waylon's apartment community aligned into reoccurring normality, after moving in just three weeks prior. The July sun was beaming across the entirety of the complex, intoxicating the various windowsills outside with frantic chatter. The complex was built so that two large regiment-colored brick buildings faced each other parallel, while a narrow sidewalk lined with flourishing flower gardens lead a trail between to connect them the short distance. The windows themselves contained their assortment of eccentric, shut-in, and questionably friendly stalemates that the man had only made a handful of acquaintances with. All of those factors made the place feel like a peaceful daydream, one so captivating that you couldn't quite pull yourself out from its visual embrace.

Waylon sat idly typing on his desk next to one of his apartment's few windows, adjusting his weight in his wheelchair so that his cast on his right leg could rest comfortably in the elevated leg rest compartment. The lower area of his injury dawned with a plaster cast, had been loitered on with pen-sprawled graffiti: 'Here lie the broken bones of Waylon Park', courteous of his most-frequented visitor Miles Upsher. He didn't mind his limb injury much since it gave him more of an excuse to occupy his typewriter and type away at his leisure (when his employer wasn't hounding him down for a new article in the paper). Why he wasn't given paid leave for his injury was beyond him.

The seating arrangement was aligned with the path of the front door, with a bedroom on the right and a cozily-fitted kitchen towards the left. The overall layout was compact and a little dense for comfort, but the atmosphere made it feel like a 'makeshift' home.

His daily routine was grim, if not utterly dull since his wheelchair was glued to its physical boundaries inside. And there was only so much he could do in the now suffocatingly dense apartment. Reading was out of the question, and as much as he _loved_ the bombardment of writer's block, freelance writing was a personal hobby- that would never see the light of day- as his boss had put it. However, on a slow day, Waylon sat at that spot of the window in the one-room apartment overlooking his obliviously lively neighbors. He didn't like to think of it as being a 'Peeping Tom', from which many had referenced it as such. He rationalized it more as being observant from a distance, without the trouble of being fully engaged in their conversations. Waylon didn't know their names or life stories, only habits and traits they displayed publicly through small window frames in the day. A light left carelessly on inside a room, a constantly arguing couple that bickered over a can opener, a heavy built musician (pianist) with guests every Friday 'til midnight (which was truly a sight to see). The list went on, and whether others debated if it was a disdained interest, it kept the journalist busy.

The light breeze strolled into the room like a tiny, casual butterfly fluttering kisses of air towards no one in particular. It tickled the tip of his nose, trailing the scent of summer flower bouquets and cinnamon- a reminder of his late mother. Briefly, multiple images fazed through his mind; delicate but diligent hands making dinner, few hazel locks straying out of place of her ideal ivory tinted face. A genuine smile enhanced the laugh lines near her brown, wise eyes. The wave of nostalgia sent shivers down his spine, in a way that he could imagine himself as a child again clasping his young hands together on the dinner table admiring his mother's features.

It felt as if it were yesterday, when he'd clamor down steps to greet his father's arrival, or guests visiting for the holidays. He was an only child, so naturally he became lonely often. Any form of attention given to him was absorbed like a dog receiving pats and scratches. The boy looked forward to being acknowledged, the sympathy given to him for that.

Now, it was different. It felt like a hassle to have people visit him, attempts at trying to pry him from his home were fruitless and never had a favorable outcome. Plans would be cancelled, phone calls were ignored, letters unopened. After school, he had moved far away from them; no way to be contacted- not that he wanted to be. His only 'retreat', or 'refuge' was the window. His only connection to the outside world was the window.

Was it his own fault for dooming himself to such a distant and socially-deprived purgatory? What if one day he couldn't occupy himself with the window anymore? If the check-up calls stopped coming? What would his impulse tell him to do? He didn't like to dwell on the thought.

The front door opened abruptly, welcoming the journalist's neighbor as his mental butterfly was chased out the open window. He slung off his black trilby hat with his tweed overcoat onto the disorganized coat rack, revealing a baby blue dress shirt and a multicolored plaid tie. "You city folk are off your rockers, I'd say. Who stays cooped up inside on a perfectly sunny day? You'll catch your death cooped up in here." Miles complained as he stepped over a seemingly endless amount of paper displayed on the floor, to which Waylon had to roll his eyes and smile while typing. Miles's family had raised him up on a farm, a distance away from the 'big city', as he referred to it. The brunette didn't lose his farm boy accent, a supposed asset to his charm. Often he would moan and groan about the industry's cycle of low pay and scumbag bosses, and he could remorse with his roommate missing the familiar countryside. 'Home'. "Not a single peoples insight out there. Just Mrs. Pettila and her Yorkie." Miles scorned at the name, his very posture seething distaste while he shook his head.

Mrs. Pettila was an older woman who lived in the building opposite to theirs, with her chocolate colored Yorkie, Dixie. The garden in the courtyard below was primarily hers, which she took pride in tending every morning. The overly-humanitarian act seemed as if it could somehow brighten the mood of any soul who passed glance. Of course, the same could be said about Miles's similarly optimistic demeanor. Usually. "It's as if the lot of you are afraid of talkin' or somethin'. We've become a race of 'peeping toms', I swear.." The brunette slipped his tie off his neck and tucked it into his nearest pants pocket, walking into the kitchen to swing the refrigerator door open agape.

Waylon shrugged, multitasking with his work. "Well, maybe people wouldn't like to share what skeletons are hiding in their closet, you know?" He paused. "Eating in _their_ own home _ _.."__

Miles must've not heard him, or at least the last part, because he still shouldered deep in the fridge.

The detective's sandwich was peculiar, as you'd expect: he dubbed it, 'the ' _Ham_ 'pton'; ham, turkey, cheese, jelly, pickles, and lots of mayonnaise. Six layers of heart attack on a bun. Mm!

"I doubt that includes spying on folks, being paranoid an' such. Besides, you're in the midst of a social butterfly as we speak! Take notes." The brunette muffled over a piece of bread in his mouth, while gesturing towards the entirety of his being. Waylon could imagine the motion without seeing Miles physically, making him chuckle.

"Who could resist the world-renowned charisma of Detective Upsher, he's got a wonderful _personality _."__ Waylon teased with a thick New York accent, smirking to himself as he typed.

Miles scoffed, frowning in Waylon's direction as he crossed his arms. "Shut it, Park. You think this is just a pretty face?" Miles raised an eyebrow suggestively, fluttering his eyelashes.

"It sure must give your wife a laugh, that much is true. You eat her out of house-and-home too?" The blond stated, not breaking his gaze on his hands working.

The brunette only snorted in response, shutting the fridge door closed to stroll towards the window, two sandwiches in hand. "Like apple butter," He chuckled aloud at the thought. "Can't take my eyes off 'er. The little rascal's due in November y'know, Valentine's baby." Miles winked in Waylon's direction, tilting his chin upward suggestively as he set one of the sandwich plates next to him. Waylon's face contorted slightly at the 'extra info', but he knew Miles meant good will by it. The man was certainly a tease, and was most noticeably observant of his associate-- more specifically, the journalist's past love ordeals. That particular subject was an indecisive one, a topic fate had cursed him for on multiple occasions. In Waylon's mind, the safest territory was stable, constant scheduling. Every day simple and quiet, not too much action. As he had learned in the past, people could not change and even if they managed to manifest differences, they would end up precisely where they started. No change- after all, the safest route was the only route.

Despite Waylon's internal morals, Waylon displayed a smile. "That's good to hear. Are you scared?"

"Of my wife?" He muffled through half a sandwich left. The mayonnaise was seeping out at every bite.

"No, of being trusted with a breathing human being." By no means did Waylon think that Miles didn't come off as responsible, though in most instances he was still a teenager in an adult's body. The brunette being put in the care of a child was an eerie thought in itself.

Miles took a fake blow to his own chest as he clutched invisible pearls, leaning onto the wall in dramatic antics of empty offense. "Sure, because the 24-year-old, single journalist with no rascals of his own in powder blue pajamas has so much experience."

In the silent pause that followed, he took the opportunity to take in his friends' features, particularly his face and hands. Waylon's digits looked strained with a dark strawberry tint, an addition to the dark circles enveloping his tired eyes. Sleep deprivation, no doubt. Miles was lucky if Waylon bothered to remember eating on time, or a decent schedule even. He usually would leave him alone when he was busy reviewing a column or being glued to the tabs of his machine. Even within a regular conversation, Waylon would drift off to the world of articles and the lingering scent of ink and metallic residue. To know that his friend had stressed himself out and hadn't asked his companion for help gave him goosebumps.

The detective's snarky and bold attributes had contrasted the journalist's meek and timid traits, though the pair were inseparable. Miles worked in the law enforcement department, which meant most of the day he was occupied with police reports and whatever interestingly odd claims were thrown in through gossip. The only difference was that Murkoff, the newspaper and press company, had no mercy when it came to working the blond hard on an article.  

Miles was tempted about bringing up the topic, but decided against it. He knew nagging him now wouldn't help either of them. Instead, he let a smile reside on his face. He wouldn't have Waylon worry about anyone more than himself, and definitely not his best friend.

He grew desperate of the long silence, though half of him debated on keeping it that way. After taking his last bite, he wiped his hands with a nearby napkin. "Y'know, you shouldn't work yourself at stayin' in that one spot too long. Might catch a cramp, or hurt your leg. I know Murkoff don't need another bum leg outta you. Then what good will ya do, huh?" Miles teased lightly, glancing back out the window.

"Ah... Waylon?" No response.

Now Miles had to look back at the journalist, knitting his brows in confusion and concern. "Way." He said, more sternly than before.

"Hm?" Waylon perked up this time, his eyes following Miles's expectant look. "..You were... talking about work?" He rubbed the back of his neck bashfully, realizing his work had distractedly caught up with him once again. Had he drifted off again? Miles's deflated look answered the question soon after.

"Of all my years of knowin' you, you're the only man to work on a bright Saturday afternoon with a clear conscience." Miles sighed in disbelief. He walked over to Waylon and held limply pieces of his hair. "You need a haircut. Don't you got a day left for the stump?"

"A week. Next weekend," Waylon corrected. "Then it's back to hell."

"You mean freedom?.."

"I know what I said." 

Miles frowned but didn't retort. He only put his hands on his shoulders. "Ain't you excited about gettin' it off?"

"No, I ain't." Waylon swatted his hands away. "It sounds like just another day to me. Back to work like always."

"It  _sounds_ like you need a break. Picture it," he squeezed an arm around the blond, "the ideal vacation. Can your robot brain of gears and grease see it?"

He tried. "..I got it."

"Great, what is it?" 

"Being left to work."

The detective scowled. "Gee, you really are a wet blanket. All you do is work! Work this, work that. I can't get you three feet away from that typewriter. I can feel myself contractin' a work habit just lookin' at you."

"For good reason. If you're feeling ill, you're free to leave." Waylon turned back to the machine and continued typing away.

He crossed his arms. "What could be the cause of this? I wonder."

He kept typing.

"A hormone deficiency?"

He typed, avoiding eye contact.

The brunette picked up on that. "Well, I guess nothin' can cure my best friend. Nothin'. At. All."

He thought to himself for a second, then that iconic farm-boy smile was etched into his features again. "..Well, 'cept for that Lisa. She goes all over town to find somethin' to do. That penthouse don't give a rich girl much company." That much was true. Waylon and Lisa had known each other since grade school, and she had been the most ambitious, if not impatient woman he had ever encountered. Nothing like the stereotypical housewife television and movies had portrayed the average woman as. As much as their close relationship had grown fondly, there was an unprecedented line of fire he wasn't elated about crossing.

Lisa thought of them as sweethearts. On Waylon's part, he was.. indecisive on the topic. He wasn't against it, he just didn't have the proper response to a wealthy girl that could buy the whole block out. What if she wanted to get married? His hands sped up on the keyboard. What if she wanted _kids _?__ A busybody rich girl like herself couldn't possibly be happy cooped up in his small apartment, passing the days by cleaning or cooking for a homebody journalist. And even if she were somehow occupied enough to enjoy his company, Lisa might even get the idea to move far away someplace in a busy city with loud people and alarmingly bright lights- in summary, an unpleasant future. The very possibilities were too much for his mind to comprehend.

"Earth to Waylon!" Miles shouted; he had managed to divert Waylon's hands off the typewriter and into his lap with quick movements. "I was only teasin', gee. One mention of her name puttin' you into cardiac arrest?"

"I was just typing too quickly, I'm perfectly capable Miles.." Waylon frowned towards the detective, rubbing his thumb over the palm of his sore hand.

"Uh-huh, whatever you say, Mr. Park. Could you be a little more careful at least? One leg is enough." Miles shook his head to dismiss him, bending down to look at one of Waylon's many slips of paper on the floor. He slipped the paper into his hand and curiously let his eyes browse the blond's work. "What's this, the obituary?"

"This week's headline." Waylon mumbled.

"What's the headline?" Miles inquired. Waylon shook his head in response. "C'mon, shoot." Miles encouraged, pulling a stray chair from the corner to sit on.

Waylon accepted his request, leveled his eyes with the top of his currently typed sheet of paper. "Traffic accident on Madison Square springs on riot for third week."

Miles lowered his brows to think for a moment to himself. He twiddled his thumbs, mind thickly debating on words as he leaned back in thought. "Tempting, except it's missing a little 'moxy'." Miles cleared his throat, shifting his tone to a more clear, English-like dialect. "24-year-old journalist puts town of Menkin to sleep."

Waylon puffed out an exasperated sigh, leaning his back farther into his seat. "That bad, huh?"

Miles' expression shifted, grimacing at his roommate's bluntness. "Not _bad_ , but.."

"Terrible," Waylon stated flatly. He drew a hand through his blond mess of hair, obviously distressed by his sudden writer's block. He knew Miles attempted to give him motivation in good spirit, but it didn't exactly come off as 'helpful'. It was in his nature, to be honest, another perk from being best friends with a detective. The brunette must've detected his dismay because soon he was probing a hand onto Waylon's shoulder.

"C'mon, Way. If you don't like it that much, change it. Those fat old penny pinchers up in the press ain't got a thing on their star reporter!" Miles patted the shorter man's back firmly with glee. Waylon leaned upward slightly, looking up at the ceiling.

"Sure, 'the Mount Massive Globe Gazzette's own star columnist changes the game with eccentric title, body found at the bottom of the Louisiana swamp'. I'm doomed." Waylon rested his forehead on the small table before him in defeat.

"Hey now, you're gettin' to being a little dramatic, y'know? One title isn't gonna to send the 'globe' no meteor shower. They'll get over it toot sweet. You're smart, they can't corner you 'cuz you're stubborn as hell."

"Gee, thanks," Waylon mumbled from his face muffled on the table, but he knew the compliment was ironically genuine. To others, and his superiors, Waylon was smart. Too smart. If something did happen, the journalist could probably get dirt on them so fast their heads would be spinning before they could catch him. A detective and a journalist could become a destructive duo. Only if they needed to be, of course.

Miles rubbed his stubble as he looked out the window, distracted. "I swear, I have no idea how I met your crazy behind."

The journalist frowned, perking up his head to look towards him. "Says the man who strings up scandalous celebrity newspaper clippings and rambles on about those crazy UFOs, I'd say you're not that far off."

"You think Lisa would mind two broken legs?" Miles threatened in a playfully low tone, holding his fist up in warning. The two men's harmless threats erupted into laughter, the irony seeping into his at first threatening words. Waylon held his own stomach, his head hanging back behind his chair in painless agony. "That reminds me.." Miles rose up from his seat and strutted over to the jet-tinted phone and dialed a few numbers. The blond's eyes followed his movements, curious as he shifted in his seat.

"Who'd you remember?" He questioned, slightly suspicious.

In response, Miles shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. "S'm'body."

"Miles.." He growled, a threatening tone rising in his throat. He couldn't have called who he thought, right? Miles wasn't that crazy.

The brunette began to fake a snivel, batting his eyelashes persistently in emotion. "After all we've been through, pal, you don't trust me- oh, Lisa! It's Miles. Waylon just had a question.." Mile's natural accent was gone in a second and was replaced by a more clear English one. 

At the sound of her name, Waylon's eyes widened and he frantically mouthed the words, 'No!', but Miles just spun around to face a different direction. In an instant he rolled his wheelchair over to the phone in an attempt to reach the phone high in Miles's grasp. Miles only lifted it higher, grinning like an idiot. "No, it's actually good news." Waylon considered grabbing a broom off the wall, and so did Miles apparently, because soon after they both shared glances with each other and were practically diving for it. As they struggled for a manageable grip, their scrap didn't divert the phone conversation.

"Could you.. swing by, your-" Miles held an arm out to the handicapped man's chest in an attempt to slow him down, "Suitor to be is quite- antsy!" He cringed briefly and fell to his knees, grunting in pain as he held onto the phone. Waylon had knocked the wind out of him with the wooden broom's tip, but the detective was determined to finish his call. "See you.. soon." he breathed, dropping the phone back into its place on the small table. His breath began to even out, and soon enough he spoke: "You'll thank me... later. If you don't marry that girl, you're gonna be six foot under Madison."

"With or without my typewriter?" Waylon scoffed, putting the broom back in its place.

"Sure, with white pearls around your neck, too." 


	2. Mona Lisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have named you ___  
>  _You're so like the lady with the mystic smile ___  
>  _Is it only 'cause you're lonely they have blamed you? ___  
>  _For that Mona Lisa strangeness in your smile? ___

A knock on the door interrupted their small dispute, soon Miles sat up and stepped over to the door's peeking hole. The grin stayed plastered on his face as he whispered, smiling like a hyena, "Speak of the devil." He patted his pocket with a mischievous smile. "Better get out my smokes."  
  
"Play nice, Upsher," Waylon warned. If not for the sudden company, Waylon was sure he would've given the man a good shiner from earlier- if only, he thought to himself.

Miles took the liberty to open the door himself, revealing the anticipated visitor: Lisa Park.  
  
Sure enough, the young woman referred to as Lisa had waltzed into the apartment with studious poise. Like an angel in human form, light as a feather on her feet. It was almost scary to Waylon, how her presence alone could compare to a deity- hell, the president. "Afternoon, gents." Her pleasant, pearly white grin put the whitest of clouds to shame, the faintest smile spread to Waylon's lips as a result. "Afternoon, Lisa." If he said he wasn't sweating, he'd be lying.  
  
"What brings you to our humble abode, Ms. Park?" Miles jested and motioned to the small one-room apartment space.  
  
"Why, to check on the hardworking duo, of course." She smiled softly and stepped towards Waylon's wheelchair, her four-inch heels clicking on the floor in the process. "How's your injury?"  
  
Waylon shrugged innocently, "Stiff. Doesn't bother me much, though."  
  
"Doctor says he's got one more week before his limp is gone." Miles casually searched his pockets and lit a cigar, walking over to the window front. "Wish it was less y'know, you need to tell him to stop workin' so hard. He won't listen to me." Miles puffed smoke out into the air, lazily gesturing to Waylon's direction.  
  
"Now that is true, Waylon. Why haven't you taken a proper break?" Lisa scolded softly while she sat down in the chair Miles previously sat in. Her perfect complexion practically shined in the sun's view, and her hair was almost platinum blonde, much brighter than his own. It made her look like a doll, the porcelain ones in toy store windows little girls beg their mothers for, kicking and screaming. The comparison in his head was utterly uncanny; his internal thinking made him grin without even noticing, like an admiring idiot.

"If you can't heal properly, how do you expect to heal? After all, you won't be able to answer the big question." Waylon's focus shot back to reality, to Lisa; the anticipation in her voice betrayed her innocent movements. oblivious as he attempted to calculate his next words carefully. If Waylon made any wrong moves, he was sure she'd put him in the wringer. Either that or her tears would flood the whole block. Both equally unfavorable, he decided. "A-a new dress, I presume?" Waylon stammered to divert the elephant in the room, but it seemed to work on Lisa.  
  
Lisa's smile brightened even more somehow. "Oh, yes!" She rose optimistically from her seat to smooth her attire's fabric, spinning full circle. " Surprise! Mr. Gluskin, the tailor down the street finished another one for me this afternoon. Isn't it just _darling_?"  
  
"It's certainly something." The dress consisted of its jet black bodice top with a v-neck that exposed her back, a slim belt hugging her midsection. The skirt was white with black peacock feather accents sewn down the waist with many layers, reaching her ankles over her black heels. It looked more expensive than anything Waylon owned in his home, not to mention every detail and seam made it look possibly handmade. By the hands of a dexterous artist, no doubt.  
  
"Speaking of surprises? I've come with a gift." Lisa stepped back out of the open front door, swaying her doll-like waist subconsciously on the way. The brunette detective glanced in Lisa's direction as she left, whistling loud enough for Waylon to hear. Waylon disapproved with a guttural noise from his throat, giving Miles a troubled look blushing. "Wife," he coughed. Miles looked back at the blond and waved him off. "I'm just yankin' your chain, Park." He whispered back with a cunning grin.

~

Lisa rested two bags on the floor close to the kitchen, while a man following her wearing a chef's apron brought a large bag of tools and food items into the kitchen. His nametag read, "Carl". The glance Miles and Waylon exchanged spoke a single word. 'Rich.'  
  
"Dinner will be ready in a few, I hope you two are hungry," Lisa spoke. Miles inconspicuously slid the unfinished sandwich plate Waylon hadn't touched out of view. "Famished." Waylon shook his head, but agreed anyway.  
The name Lisa mentioned earlier resonated in Waylon's mind, but he couldn't put the name to a proper face. He did feel a connection, as if it were familiar. "Gluskin," Miles echoed tapping the tip of the fat cigar to his lip, "That odd fella in Block B?"  
  
Lisa nodded, pulling off her gloves as she sat back down. "I wouldn't inquire him as odd, but yes. Have you met him?"  
  
"Nope, I've only seen 'im from afar. Usually keeps to himself, when he's not 'busy'.." Miles's expression was nonchalant, but his word choice obviously directed toward something completely different.  
  
Lisa was equally curious, she also hesitated at his choice of words. The difference was that she responded back. "Well, he seemed friendly to me." She decided.  
  
Miles puffed out more smoke, turning in her direction to smile. "You did put money in his pocket, he didn't exactly have a choice."  
  
She poked her lips out as if she were pouting. "A man isn't nice to a woman for no reason, I'm aware of that." Lisa frowned in his direction, crossing her slim arms across her chest. "However, he was kind and compliant to my wishes. Hence the dress he took the time to make me personally." 

Miles was becoming unusually argumentative, which wasn't out of character for them when they were together. Miles was a debatable person. That was to say, he debated often. With Lisa and Miles in the same room, it wasn't particularly out of the ordinary for them to dispute over potato or tomato. It was a little strange with the way he was acting now though. Miles could take a joke; he would go as far as to debate, but not to argue. 

Despite this, he decided to let them talk. They could be civil, right?

Right?

"Kind, huh? That 'tailor' you know?" Miles shook his head. "Oh, you don't know the half of it. He rented out the entire floor above us. Makes a fella wonder why he'd live with us reg'lar people." Waylon audibly 'tsk'ed from behind him. "..And all that empty space.." He mumbled to himself, rubbing his stubble.  
  
Lisa shrugged lightly. She didn't seem very convinced by Miles's argument, she was just as hard-headed after all. "Well, maybe he's a wealthy man. Did you think of that, detective?"   
  
"I don't have to!" He shot back, tapping his cigar on the windowsill. "Wealthy or not, we don't know what's up there. Hell, he could have bodies up there- who knows? All I know is that I can feel it."  
  
"That's ridiculous, you can't go accusing people because of a feeling! Have you gotten any proof?" She stood up and had to look up to meet his eyes.  
  
"Now wait just a minute, you two." Waylon intervened by wheeling in between them. "If you've never met him before, Lisa's got a point. How do you know he's bad company? You might be thinking too hard about this."  
  
Miles groaned, throwing his hands up. "Not you too, Park! Out of anyone in here, I'd expect you to back me up. Haven't you seen 'im from your window?" Waylon rolled his eyes, of course he'd bring up that right now. Like it would help his case. He didn't want to be made the bad guy, but rumors were rumors.  
  
"Alright, fine. Don't believe me." He crossed his arms while looking away from the two. He was pouting like a child, as he usually did when he didn't get his way. "You might as well have called me insane."  
  
Waylon sighed. "Miles, that's not what I meant. Doesn't the saying go, 'every person is innocent until-"  
  
"Whole thing's locked up as tight as Alcatraz anyways, even when I tried to-" Miles quickly clamped his lips shut. He cringed to a high degree, embarrassed. "I mean, probably. _Maybe_. Who knows, right?"  
  
The brunette quickly turned toward the window and lifted the cigar back to his lips' perch. He anxiously puffed quick and comical clouds of smoke.  
  
"Miles," Lisa inquired, "Did you go up there?"  
  
"That's what I'd like to know." Waylon added, tapping his good foot on the floor.  
  
He shrugged hesitantly. "Now, now Park. Why would I lie to my best friend-"  
  
"Miles Upsher-"  
  
"Ok, ok! Jeez.." He sighed. " I.. may have heard a few rumors." Waylon cocked an eyebrow at him. _And_? "..And stole a few residential receipts?" He chuckled nervously, finally taking the cigar and rubbing the bud out on the windowsill.  
  
Waylon sighed impatiently. Observing a lion was one thing, reaching a hand in its mouth was another. "When did this happen, exactly?"

Miles thought for a moment, quirking his face in the process. "I'd say.. yesterday?"  
  
"Miles!" Waylon groaned.  
  
"I couldn't help myself, you know that. I heard things in the department, and I just had to know. But that proves my point!" He motioned up at the ceiling, a serious look crossing his face. "That man's trouble. I just know it. I can feel it in my gut." Waylon's gaze fell towards the kitchen. He couldn't fathom it; this was how far Miles would reach, go after a rumor. But for what reason? An office joke turned delusional?  
  
Lisa sat back down, motioning circles with her hands. "All I'm saying is that it doesn't make much sense, is all. It's.."  
  
"Crazy?"  
  
"Yes, 'crazy' even. To accuse the poor man of something so dreadful."  
  
"Rich defend the richer.." Miles grumbled to himself, shoving a hand in his pocket to light another cigar.  
  
Lisa turned her head back to Miles, narrowing her eyes. "Alright, let's say it was true indeed. So an entrepreneur like Mr. Gluskin has enough money to rent his own apartment and an apartment floor, a studio. With the funds of his shop, not to mention. Then what?" Lisa jested. "He stores corpses hanging from the ceiling, like a madman? Oh, I can't even think about such a thing." She rested her chin in the palm of her hand, physically disturbed by the idea.  
  
"I've heard noises from up there, and his apartment. Women he leads into his clutches, probably."  
  
Lisa smiled. "He is a man, Miles. What is it our business to intrude on his love life?"  
  
"So, you suppose a brothel of some sort?" Miles raised his brows.  
  
Waylon cleared his throat. "Alright, enough supposing. What he does or doesn't do is none of our concern."  
  
"What if he's also an artist? A studio of that size would make perfect sense." Lisa added.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Or, they're making music. And not the ordinary kind-"  
  
"Miles!"  
  
Waylon was being ignored by the two. It seemed as if Lisa had finally been pulled into Miles's antics. As far as Waylon knew, he was the only sane one in the room. Besides the chef, he considered. He decided giving up was the best option since their 'odd' brainstorming would most likely prove to be an unstoppable force. He looked back outside the window, the sky was now a peach-indigo fusion. Block B's windows were open still, wafting the smell of roast, summer, and alcohol. The concoction of smells would've warded anyone else away, but the apartment complex's residents were used to it.  
  
The rather large pianist was playing a calm tune with his instrument's keys like it was second nature, and crowds of people casually dressed occupied different spaces of the apartment. People were uttering things to him, but he didn't seem to be listening much. An introvert, he concluded.  
  
Miss Lonelyhearts, as Waylon dubbed her the nickname, was a middle-aged woman who usually sat at her kitchen table; she'd drink herself silly until she fell asleep later. Today, her current endeavor was setting up a modest dinner for two with a bottle of sparkling cider she'd probably been saving for god knows how long. The event she'd been celebrating, to have sparkling anything on a summer's night? He had no clue. He couldn't hypocritically overanalyze her though, he was having an expensive meal with Lisa. The definition- no, the spokeswoman- of rich. The circumstances were pretty similar, he decided.  
  
A stealthy amount of breeze slipped into the room, passing Waylon's ear with the sound of a door opening. He subconsciously tensed while shuddering, which confused him at first. He followed the sound by rolling his chair closer to the window, but not in front of it. The shadows of his apartment covered where he was sitting; rule #1 of people watching: People shouldn't be able to see you see them.  
  
A window across the garden revealed a man with groceries, locking his front door with keys. The odd thing though, was not that he had put the groceries down and not put them away, but that he grabbed only one item out: a vinyl record. That made Waylon notice the record player sitting in the corner of the room, fitted closer to the door.  
  
He also noticed that he'd never seen this mystery man before, he hadn't heard about any new arrivals in the opposite block. For the time being though, he decided his name would be Anonymous B. In the meantime, he'd be content finding clues about him.  
  
Anonymous B walked over to the large device and delicately set the disc in its place. The sound that followed his actions was an arousing tone of collective instruments, playing the introduction to a song. It sounded old, but after all most songs did. After the prelude, the disciples of musical volumes soon drowned out their tune to allow a man's soft voice entering the parade.  
  
_"Do I want to be with you,_  
_As the years come and go?_  
_Only forever,_  
_If you care to know.."_  
  
Soon another voice intervened, clearer and thicker in volume contrasting to the first voice- Anonymous B's. The interlapped harmony halted a few of the other resident's activities, entrancing them to listen without hesitation. Waylon brought his head to rest in the palm of his hand, soothed by the melody that floated from point A to point B. It tuned out all of his other senses; the debating of Lisa and Miles, the pianist, all of it. Initially he tried fighting against it, he had a goal and he wasn't going to let himself become distracted. Against his wishes, being able to focus while that was occuring wasn't high on the agenda.  
  
Like clockwork, the man's eyes met Waylon's in a seemingly planned trance. He sensed they were now in a registered staring contest, and Waylon realized how unnerving it was: he was spotted. He tried to move his hands, to turn the wheels on his wheelchair, but he felt the weight of ten men on his wrists and feet. He physically couldn't move, but something mentally didn't want him to. It was strangely comforting, all of his attention was on the journalist.  
Unwavering, and constant.  
  
He felt like a child, entranced by a snake's colorful eyes fading reality. Waylon was the clueless child, and the man across the garden of flowers was the snake.  
  
_"Would I grant all your wishes,_  
_And be proud of the task?_  
_Only forever,_  
_If someone should ask.."_  
  
In what seemed like hours, minutes passed as the serenadal exchange continued.  
  
From another room shouldering Anonymous B's, a blonde woman, probably in her mid 20's swayed into the room towards the man. He seemed reluctant to relieve himself of glancing at the journalist, but soon after she seemed to hum an impatient sigh and cup his cheek in her small hand. She wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her head of curls on his chest affectionately. The girl looked a decent amount of years younger; her appearance was so identical to Lisa's they could be mistaken as sisters. But one difference was apparent: her eyes.  
As the song concluded, the blonde slowly gazed up at Waylon and shot him a covered sideways smirk. Her eyes were green, like emeralds- or a spider's.  
  
She put space between her and the taller man, swinging her hips only to take one last look before finally closing the blinds. The blue eyes were once again concealed by their beholder, still stirring in Waylon's subconscious. Who was the woman next door?  
  
He pondered an assortment of things- since the man had possibly just moved there, were they married? Based on her intentions, she couldn't truly know him that well- could she? 'Get it together, Waylon', he thought to himself. It was none of his business. Nevertheless, he was still curious.  
  
"Way." Miles shook his shoulder lightly, causing the blond to twist swiftly around. "What'd I miss? A weapon? A suspect? Work with me, Park." Waylon looked back at the apartments and thought quietly. He already knew if he told the truth, he'd get chewed out with teasing or worse. He didn't want to fuel the conspiracy-theory fire in the brunette, lying couldn't be that bad, could it?   
  
"Chris was playing his music again, and.. that's it." Miles didn't look very convinced, but since he trusted Waylon he nodded. "Next time, quit slacking on the job, Park." Waylon curled his lips, imitating the same gesture. "Yes, sir." It didn't feel that bad to lie, but it still felt different than usual.  
  
"Where's Lisa?" Waylon asked.  
  
"Kitchen, 'Carl' needed some help." Miles shrugged.  
  
"Well kiddos," he called to the kitchen, "The missus is probably waiting on me. I hope the rest of your night is filled with glee, good tidings, yadda yadda." The brunette walked over to the door and grabbed his things, slipping his jacket back on his shoulders. Waylon rolled his wheelchair after him and looked up at Miles. He and Miles were always near-height with each other, but recently the detective prevailed tallest (farm genes, or something). "Do you think they'll tell you more about it?"  
  
The brunette quirked a brow. "So we are interested, eh?" Miles rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "I can't be too sure, this wouldn't be the first time I made some crazy 'Upsher accusation'."  
  
Waylon sympathized with his best friend. He couldn't blame the man for having doubts in the authorities, even if he was close with most people in his division. He contemplated the thought, tapping his foot simultaneously. Who were they to shoot down his ideas, even if they were crazy? "They can't take your job just because they think it's different, Miles. If you need a second opinion, I'll roll over there if I have to."  
  
Miles beamed. "You, Old Man Park? Oh, now that'd be a sight to see. Imagine, you hauling your behind up three flights of stairs for some stupid story. It sure sounds like you, huh.." Miles's smile faded, he got suddenly quiet. The gloomy expression was irregular and didn't fit his face, so Waylon tried to fix it. The blond smiled toward him, bumping his lower rib cage. "And I'll be pushing you in yours, old man."  
  
"Old man? Pssh, whatever. You've got one foot in Shady Acres Retirement Home, and one in the grave! In those same bland blue pajamas, too." There was the farm boy smile again. Waylon couldn't help but grin too, after all, Miles's smile was contagious.  
  
"I'm warning you, Miles. Don't get in any trouble alright?"  
  
Miles laughed shortly, confidently throwing his hat on his head. "I'm a magnet for trouble, Park. You should really be worried about yourself." He glanced at the kitchen, then quickly back at Waylon. "You all good, buddy?" His original accent was back.  
  
Waylon frowned. "I'm... fine, are _you_ okay?" Miles shook his head.  
  
Miles looked shaken, like a deer in headlights. His bubbly attitude turned serious, and he raised a finger up to his lips. The two of them would exchange messages like this when other people were close in their vicinity or around them. Waylon nodded, and Miles fished around in his pockets for a slip of paper. He got on one knee and handed Waylon the paper. Waylon made a questionable expression, what could he be hiding? He wanted to refuse it, but Miles shoved it closer toward him; the blond eventually gave in and took it.  
  
"I'm serious, bud," Miles whispered. "You've been doing the 'old man' shtick for a while, right?" Miles was referencing the 'spacing out' fits he'd have. Waylon usually didn't give him time to dwell on the topic, but he felt backed in a corner- between the brunette's soft guy voice and the worrying. This Miles Upsher was one reserved exclusively for Waylon.  
  
Waylon shoved him closer toward the door. "I'm fine, alright? If I were growing any grey hairs though, it would be because of you stressing me out."  
  
Miles chuckled, "Pshh, whatever. I stress your small, young mind with truth. Unfortunately, people don't seem to be that keen on the 'truth' department."  
  
Waylon shrugged. "That's because people are afraid of things different than them."  
  
"Must be why they don't like us." With that, Miles opened the front door-  
  
"Miles." He turned and raised his brows quizzically. Waylon's eyes spoke the question for him: "What's this paper for?" In response, Miles smiled and pointed at the ceiling. "There's a storm coming." Twisting back around, he shut the door loudly behind himself.  
  
Waylon winced, taking note that Miles had always managed to close doors loud and in a hurry. The reason, like many questions, was unknown.  
  
He looked at the paper in his hands- it was folded, and small like a fortune cookie's. What could it be, and what was with the secrecy? He unfolded it, revealing an.. extension? Waylon was troubled by the exchange, who's was it? He regretted not asking earlier, when it was handed to him.  
  
"Oh, Miles left?" Lisa asked, stepping out the kitchen. Waylon quickly slipped it into his pants pocket, turning the chair to face her. "Yes, he seemed to be in a hurry. Something about his wife, work?" Lisa took the bait, "Oh, well that's a shame. Hopefully, we can invite them over another time?" She stepped over to a long table along the wall, with a tablecloth and fancy china; aesthetic candles were set on two sides of the table. "Dinner is served," she exclaimed, holding a hand out towards him.

"Shall we, love?"

 


	3. Goodnight Sweetheart, Goodnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >   
>  Goodnight, sweetheart, well it's time to go  
> Goodnight, sweetheart, well it's time to go  
>   
> I hate to leave you, but I really must say  
> Goodnight, sweetheart, goodnight  
> Well, it's three o'clock in the morning, and baby I just can't do right  
> Well, I hate to leave you, baby  
> I don't mean maybe, because I love you so  
> 

Somehow, by something close to an early Christmas (summer) miracle, Lisa had transformed that cozy apartment into something you'd see in those 'silver screen' movies. Fancy embroidered white tablecloth, tall candles in brass holders, fine Chinese plates I thought previously were only for decoration; the fork on the side of my plate looked enough to pay someone's rent for a year and then some. I was grateful though, Lisa had carefully moved my vintage companion (the typewriter) to a safe area under the desk without much fuss.

Before us was a feast; I'll attempt to describe in short our fine dining in detail without drooling like an idiot--  
  
The delicacies that graced our evening included, but we're not limited to:  
_A large glazed roast._ Too large for two people, notably. One swing to the back of a man's skull, by a leg of the docile beast could hypothetically kill a man. Hypothetically. I could hear Miles in my head, making some kind of witty remark or crazy theory.   
_Creamy mashed potatoes,_ a tub of butter on the corner of the desk-- restaurant table, I corrected myself.  
_Wine._ Maybe early 1940's? I wasn't a heavy drinker (nor am I now), but to pass up the opportunity tonight was a waste in itself. Why object to God's gifts?  
_Rich lobster,_ and bread (rolls). Brighter than a ruby, the same shade as Lisa's lipstick. The smell alone could sate my hunger indefinitely at the mere thought. Briefly I imagined it living near a sandy beach somewhere with its brethren, swimming happily until a man caught it and boiled it for someone's delight. My delight, I decided, was suddenly diverted at the sad truth. Upset, its eyes spoke; I should probably stop staring at it.  
  
I shifted in my seat, "Are you positive some famous celebrity isn't going to come walking through the door?"  
  
Lisa looked up from grabbing a napkin off the table. "I'm looking right at him, aren't I? Mr. Star Journalist." She added with a lilt in her voice.  
  
"I haven't written anything since I got this cast, you may want to revoke my ribbons while you can." She had tucked the napkin into her top, covering most if not all her front. Was it meant to be a tease? The carefree way she carried herself, she probably didn't even have the thought. That was definitely Miles talking. She caught my eyes halfway through the motion, I had to cough abruptly and direct my eyes away.  _Slick moves, Park._  the brunette cooed.

Lisa stepped back to her end of the table, about to take a seat without pushing it in. To not push it in myself, I thought, would've been less gentleman-like. Why did the wheelchair-bound columnist have this sudden revelation? I'm not entirely sure.  
  
"Here, let me-" I attempted to wheel over to her, but Lisa shooed my hand before I could. "You're injured, and yet you still attempt to push my chair in? I've got it, love. I'm perfectly capable." Lisa patted the back of her dress and delicately floated into her seat. "You know, there's not many like you."  
  
I scoffed. "Really? For a woman that travels as much as you do, I'm surprised you haven't found ten or more like me."  
  
Lisa shrugged her narrow shoulders, seething an aura of optimism. "Shows what you know. Drinking tonight?"  
  
She stood and grasped the long narrow wine bottle, pouring it generously into my glass until I said 'when'. I said it quite literally and got a small giggle from her. Blush followed after my idiotic remark; I have yet to rid these little embarrassments from my mind even still. I did enjoy the chemistry of it, though. Everything was simple and we spoke naturally without tension. For now.  
  
I took this opportunity to taste some of my drink, I already could feel the stable, calculated decisions and good morals slipping from my grasp. It had a bitter taste- I was more keen on beer anyway.  
  
"A toast," she grinned, "to the great Waylon Park." Speaking in a manner as if I'd passed on.   
  
Our glasses clicked, and I stole a glance as her rosy lips touched the glass's surface with care. It was a peculiar and unimaginable sight, the way she walked with no stumble in her step, how she moved her mouth and pronounced every syllable as if it were a foreign language I'd never heard before (a language only the two of us shared respectively). Some would call her beautiful, I called her perfect- no flaws included.

 _That_ was half of the problem.   
  
"Well? Dig in, dear. It won't eat itself." I wished Miles were still there. If he hadn't gone off in such a hurry, I could have invited him to dine alongside us.. and possibly help me break this to her. It would be cramped, but three's company-- four's a crowd. I alone couldn't possibly eat all of it myself, while it looked delicious in theory my stomach spoke majority ruled protests. It lurched at the thought of more than five bites, maybe less. My 'homey' lifestyle of microwave and take-out food had spoiled my devotion to a genuine home cooked meal. The last one I had was.. probably centuries ago, I estimated most accurately. "Looks absolutely scrumptious." I croaked.  
  
"Thanks to the chef. I always did like that word you know, 'scrumptious'." She laughed shortly, a cute accessory to her already amazing profile.  
  
'I could say the same about you', the imaginary Lisa of my subconscious whispered in my ear, raising the hairs on my neck. I waved it away, I wouldn't allow any 'inappropriate' thoughts at the dinner before us. Very tempting, but a decline was best.  
  
"Are you nervous?"  
  
I perked up from picking at my food. She had prepared for me a plate consisting of a dollop of potatoes, a cluster of roast and a napkin. I protested against any of the poor crustacean.  
  
The butter was running off my plate.  
  
"..Yes, I'm alright. But don't you think this is.. a little.."  
  
"Too much?"  
  
"Too perfect," I corrected. I took a small swig of the barely touched wine.  
  
"Oh, you're just being modest. This should be a time of celebration."  
  
I stopped sipping. "Celebration?"  
  
She nodded, "Yes, celebration. This is a tribute to you- to us- and your future success. Good to have good luck on your side, don't you think?"  
  
I didn't feel particularly uncomfortable when people treated me. It was a gift, after all. I _deserved_ it, after my continuous hard work. But as much as I wanted to dig in with no remorse, something in my gut told me I wouldn't be able to return as good of a favor. In Lisa's case, tenfold. It probably didn't matter to her, but on the surface of her 'thank me later' attitude was something akin to eternal debt.  
  
We ate, more Lisa than me, throwing in stories and witty inside jokes we'd developed into the pot of conversation. She'd recall an event from forever ago, I'd laugh it off as if I could remember that far, and smile. No point in ruining the night with my short-term memory.

 

The night dragged on, after swig after gulp of grape liquid and a rich meal the two misfits were famished. Not full, but satisfied. Sometime between their feast and now, Lisa's heels had found their way to the front door.

 _What was she to do with the leftover food afterward?_ , I dawdled to myself. Throw it out? Feed ally cats? Take it home? Maybe Miles would arrive before the last hour of the night and thankfully devour his share.

The sky was now eternally engulfed by night, few stars sitting in their respective spots in space. Most residents were either asleep or also dining the night away. A newlywed couple, most likely ecstatic of their new apartment together, had blinds drawn low; dim haze poked through the blinds while all other lights were off. I didn't have to see in their apartment to know they were most likely, if not entirely, happy. I smiled at the thought of their happiness and satisfaction with each other.  _They were satisfied. Aren't you?_

  
I hadn't realized she had began speaking again. I dragged my attention from the window to see her waiting, patient gaze.  
  
"Come again?"  
  
Lisa hummed softly, looking out the window with her jaw in her palm. "I wonder what goes on in that head of yours." I could tell she was troubled by it.  
  
She exhaled gently, turning back to me. "I said, what do you think? Of moving in with me and my father?"  
  
If I were drinking the delinquent liquid from earlier still, I was sure I would have choked. "Come again?" I repeated in disbelief.  
  
She laughed hesitantly, circling a finger around her now empty glass. "You know, moving in together. You could be taken care of, and it's closer to your job's headquarters. I don't want you to be.. lonely, here by yourself." She spoke in a remorseful tone, but even she could see by the look on my face how impossible that could actually be.  _Live_ with her? We barely saw each other on a daily basis. Personally, I didn't know or think we needed to be that close. I enjoyed my tiny solitude.  
  
"And I can already read your mind, 'What about the commute?'. I could hire an escort, a limo for you. Hell, I could convince them to make you an above the fold article writer. Anything you desire, if you ask it. What do you say, love?" I didn't say anything. Surely she understood why that was a fantasy far from reach, why I couldn't accept the one gift that would make her happiest. That was the thing with Lisa: You could buy her a car, a house, a plane, but the joy would be only temporary. What other men didn't know, what I knew, was that one thing in the whole world that money couldn't buy is what she wanted: acceptance. Gratification. Love. Valentine's Day, Christmas, birthdays, any day she could give to others she would. So why, then, after evaluating all of this, was world-renowned Waylon Park so stumped for a response? It was easy, just say 'yes'. Take her into your arms, buy her the automobile of her dreams. The house of an abundant flower garden and picket fence, have lovely children to share the world with. Take her on a million vacations to Europe. Love her. Why couldn't I comply with the norm?

Well for starters, I was broke.  
  
Lisa waited for a response, not filling the air with more conversation; she was as silent as a monk. She must've assumed I was daydreaming, and I wished I was, but the debate shook my skull enough for me to stay in the ring-- stay in reality. No daydream could change that. I pitied how easy she could detach herself from it, how blind she was to her fate.  
  
I chose my words wisely. "Lisa, my-"  
  
"It's a short answer." She deflated.  
  
I tried again. "I know you want this, but do you really know what-"  
  
"It's so simple, Way. Just tell me yes, give me that much."  
  
"If you'd let me speak, I could possibly give you an answer." I countered finally, harsher than I initially intended.  
  
She darted her gaze at the floor, the facade of the porcelain doll broken by a hammer. The hammer I had picked up and swung without hesitating. I wasn't trying to be difficult, but why was it fair that she could respond with spite and not me? Be malicious with no consequence? I was always forced to be submissive, let people yell and scream to their heart's content and comply to their wishes no matter how degrading or complicated. But the minute I had an opinion, I was in the wrong; I got the short end of the stick 98% of the time. It was aggravating, if not overbearing. The bosses, nosy colleagues, Lisa, my family-

I paused. A bad feeling sat in my gut, it stopped my rant almost immediately in its tracks.

She prepared to speak, inhaling and exhaling impatiently. "Waylon. I.. I don't want to see you slip away. I've done that once, and I can't go through that again. At the very least, listen to me. Consider it?"  
  
We lost connection a few years back, before I had gotten the columnist job and a little after Miles and I had met again after college. Said friend had encouraged me to confess how I felt- but confess, I did not. We bumped into each other instead at a very rare office party, and soon after we reconnected. But what was there to confess? I loved Lisa, cherished her, but not as she'd want. She was in it for the long-term. What I really wanted, just to be close, wasn't enough for her. It wasn't really.   
  
"I'm not dying, Lisa, I simply would rather stay here-"  
  
"Then I'll come here. Move in with you. I'll ask the landlord, have him renovate the room next door to make this apartment bigger."

"Lisa."

"You'd have an office, a bigger bed, me!" She was reaching, but I was far from convinced. Likewise, my argument wasn't very effective either. I could gift her the ground- the Earth, but she wanted the entire sky.  
  
"What, and be miserable? You'd be a housewife, gossiping what little you have to gossip about and go to tacky parties with the neighbors. Ordinarily bland dresses, a nice color if you're lucky. You'd do laundry, clean, cook, and I know you would. But I don't want you to stay up here cooped up with me," I shrugged innocently, "Why force yourself the trouble? You're not made for something like that."

"And how would you know that? You can't predict that."

"Name something you own under $60."

  
Her mouth formed a response to match my quip, but it died as soon as it hit the air. In a fit of frustration, Lisa flung the napkin out her top and squeezed it in her palm. Tears threatened her attempt at intimidating. "You can't always do everything yourself, Waylon. This isn't _about_ me. What if, what if something _happens_ to you, your attacks-"  
  
I felt the chair's cold metal wheel with a tight grip. "You can't always predict the future either, Lisa! And I'm sorry to say it, but you can't own everything that piques your interest."  
  
"I'd like to if it meant helping you." She mumbled to the room more than herself. Her elbows stood on the table for support, the napkin shriveled in her hands in case of tears. "You know what I wish for?" She started. "I want to grow old, yes, with the one I love. Regardless of the circumstances. I want children, I want a cozy home- with you- what is so wrong about wanting something different than normal, hm?"

People talked. In honesty, a relationship was like the apartment complex's residents. Two individuals would come together, newly acquainted and happy. Others, onlookers, gossiped. Spat insults and curses under their breaths. Eyes cast down on her for the reason she chose me of all men. Money? Surely not. Looks? Was I simply using her for status? The fictional scenarios made my face hot and my ears burned with embarrassment.  I would never wish that shame on Lisa's name, especially her reputation. 

What did I have to offer her, except a good laugh of the rich girl and her basic husband? I knew not what she saw in me. She enjoyed my company, that was all.

  
I shook my head. "You wouldn't understand. It's more complex than that-"  
  
"Then explain to me the details, journalist!" She practically shrieked, her voice heaving a shrill noise from her throat that made me wince. "Tell me what I should want!"  
  
The room fell silent. The blonde woman across from the man refused to let him see her break character. She bit her lip and breathed at a more than healthy rate, attempting to calm herself from killing a man with a fancy piece of silverware. It'd most likely work too, she was most definitely capable of murder. Her quivering lips said otherwise.  
  
She didn't understand. How could I ruin her with flaws, by living life alongside her? Her carefulness? Her.. everything? My reasoning, my varying personality, in her dish of unparalleled faultlessness would imbalance it; spoil it.

I was average.

She was.. different.  
  
Frankly, it was easier when she was more talkative. When she was happy. Could I still turn back, say what she wanted to hear? No. Not at all. My pride, I decided, wouldn't let me admit defeat.

The idle tension in the room left me no choice but to wander in thought. Outside the window, across the garden, Ms. 'Lonelyhearts' waltzed her heart away in her small dwarf-like kitchen. I imagined her years younger, in a pale blue dress with some unnecessary-floral-print lost in extacy with a man not much taller than her. She stepped in time with the piano player's tune, a saucer in one hand and the other on her hip doing some kind of on-tempo shimmy (for someone as aged as she was, she did have rhythm). It was silly, the way the imagination shapes a scenario that in turn blocks out all of our other senses. In reality, we know that Ms. Lonelyhearts is in fact alone with candles at her dining room table, dancing in hand with a faceless ghost, but in that woman's eyes she's going to town with the most dashing man she's ever met. I laugh to myself, tickled by the very idea.

Her waltz ends, the faceless figure leading her hand-in-hand into her seat. He pushes it in, she smiles and mouths a short 'thank you'. She asks him if he wants a drink, she complies and pours him a decent amount into his glass. She, however, takes the whole bottle and swigs it in one go: one.. two.. three.. four.. five seconds and the whole bottle's content is empty. The poor woman sets it down, starts laughing hysterically.

Lisa puts her hand on my shoulder from behind me. "That poor girl." She sighs.

I couldn't help but smile when I lift my cup again, making note to toast the woman dining so abundantly. "How long do you think she'll last tonight by herself?"

"I can't predict the future, remember?" She lifts her hand and I swear makes as least eye contact as possible as she retreats to the kitchen.  _Clack clack clack,_ her heels march.

The small uplifting moment turns bittersweet, and the woman slowly lets her arms fold on the table and sobs into them. I wince, casting my eyes away from her window. She deserved privacy.

From a distance away, the pianist sat on his bench while lazily pelting the piano with large hands. It was getting late, but even so the man preferred socializing with his instrument than mingle with his visitors. His playing was simple, natural and probably second nature. The melody carried a lulling trail in and out the complex's windows. It was invisible to the naked eye, but the effect was clear as day in the night air. It looked like magic, the way each of them reacted in their own way to the melody: Lonelyhearts was sleeping now, soundly in the crook of her elbow. Mrs. Pettila was adorning a pink night gown and large faux slippers, and Dixie wore one similar, if not utterly identical to it. The woman patted a spot on her bed, and the pooch obeyed and hopped happily next to their owner. It put a smile on my face again. I was almost convinced that all was calm and accounted for until a bell chime broke the scene's composure. My gaze flickered over to the eastern wing, hoping to follow the sound. In that anonymous man's apartment again, but this time he walked into a room farther right- a bedroom. There laid the sharp-eyed woman from before, handed a dinner tray by him. She sits up to inspect it; he fixes the bedding of the pillows behind the small of her back, she doesn't seem to thank him. Instead, she mutters some complaint and busies herself with another protest close behind about her meal. From where I sat, I couldn't quite figure out why she had become upset. He seemed tolerant enough though, patient as she spouted her demands. She sends him off to the main room again, on the left side with a kitchen and the front door with a few seats and cabinets. 

I wondered why anyone would be able to be around someone that pessimistic and not counter back somehow. Demanding, not lady-like at all. Though perhaps she might have been before as a young girl, now she seemed like a sore thumb sticking out from the positivity surrounding her. Despite her cold dismissal, the man efficiently opens a drawer in the kitchen to look for something. He fishes out a corkscrew, and inspects it in his hands. Small, compared to his tall stature. My mouth quirks to a corner of my face. As if he had predicted my thoughts, the large man turned slowly on his heel. He flashed white teeth; his suspicions were correct. He had caught an interloper. The same spectator as before. His smile is a warm one, it bothered me how it were like he felt my presence from more than yards away, it surprised me. It was rare for many to notice me from my small apartment. Why had he looked at me so familiar? I felt a cold feeling wash over me when he looked in my direction. It was awkward, if not unnerving. I pretend to fiddle with a loose button on my shirt, but he was more clever than that. He knew we'd be doing this for a while. As I feigned being distracted, he also went back to his quest of searching cabinets. I looked up while the man reached high for a bottle of alcohol- high enough for his reach, of course. He was no doubt as tall as he looked strong. 

His busyness did not quarrel with his smile, it stayed on his face as he hummed contently. I realized the piano player had started up again, a new cover. It was faster paced, I quickly recognized it as an Elvis song. I didn't listen to the radio much myself, but it was seen as strange if you couldn't identify the King of Rock and Roll like your mother's name. 

It brought questions: how had he known my eyes would return to that apartment? It was almost irritating: usually I stayed unnoticed by most. How had he outwitted me? My skin burns with shame, I hated losing more than anything.

I looked back at my plate with disinterest. And opportunity. If I looked uninterested and distracted, maybe he'd go on with his day and leave me to mine. I kept in mind that stalling him would take most likely ages, but I could wait it out. Could he? Time would tell, I wouldn't rush to see the outcome. I quickly glanced back in his direction, but he was already looking at mind.  _Damn._ I cursed. That's how it began.

We exchange looks, whoever looked first won. Whoever looked away lost. We pretended to be occupied with things, probing cabinets and picking at food, idly waiting the time like this. I hated how fun it was, the subtlety of it. The bottle is opened and he pours it into a two glasses, the hum shifts into a mix of singing and humming. Like before he turns on his feet to face me, lifts his glass up a little in his hand with a more concealed expression. I relaxed from the thought of me winning. Seeing him accept his defeat, and being disappointed. I relished the idea and leaned forward in interest. I refused to believe he smiled blindly; he couldn't be an idiot. His grin angered me, maybe I envied his cheerfulness. What did he look like when he was dispirited, frustrated? How did his brows knit at being under pressure? Did he ever agitate easily, when enraged did he lash out at the ones around him, face red with exasperation? I leered and entertained his misfortune in my head.

He doesn't look away, and the message registers too late the gesture with his hand was a toast. I'm obliviously caught off guard, and before I can hopefully have the last laugh at our game, the shrill bell chimes once again. One last look, and he's returning triumphant back to her stead. 

I realized then, I still had never learned his name. I probably wouldn't, if I was lucky.

Once Lisa returned from the kitchen, she lit one of the candles with a match sitting on the table. All other lights were off in the apartment. "What's that wonderful melody?" She spoke softly.

Chris, the pianist was playing a less upbeat song. Instead of Elvis, like the guests were interested and intrigued by, he had gone back to a more melancholy one. The song had become more developed, more structure smoothing with his style together like bread and butter. It was probably his composition. All his guest but one had retired, a wealthy looking man fixated on the wall clock. Chris seemed to be having trouble composing, a few stanzas he played until he started over in defeat.

"A songwriter. See the grand piano? By the way he's playing, probably an unhappy marriage."

She smiled, finding my shoulder with her hand. "I think it's beautiful. Almost like he's written it for us, hm?"

"No wonder he's having so much trouble with it."

I didn't have to look at her face to see the way she deflated, a sad look crossed her face. She quickly recovered, motioning to the table. "Well, at least you can't say the dinner isn't right." 

"It's perfect," I said nonchalantly, "as always."

The enthusiasm drains from her face, she takes a long look at the table before moving back to her seat.

I can feel the tension from her side of the table. "I mean this truthfully, so listen close, Lisa." Her shoulders rose as she crossed her arms, sitting back in her chair. Lisa shut her eyes and looked away, awaiting another excuse.  
  
"You've got a big heart. I love you for that Lisa, everyone does. But.. damn it, some things aren't meant to _be_. I don't _want_  anyone's help."

"That's your problem. We start acting civilized, then you start an argument instead of communicating to solve it."

"You overreact, I have no choice but to."

"And you still haven't solved my question. So I just have to move on, that's it?"  
  
"..In theory, but I hope I can make this up to you."  
  
"Is it my turn?" She stated, looking me dead in the eyes. "Waylon, just tell me what it is. Why do I have to pry it from you? Another woman having you 'pre-occupied'? A promise made to some normal girl with small dreams? Everyone eats the same food Waylon, breathes the same air. We laugh, we talk, we cry all the same."

"I'm not hiding anything, and-"

"It makes no sense. Why can't someone live and visit places, live in both equally?"

I attempted cutting in. "Some can. But if you'll let me explain-" 

"It's like a never-ending vacation. Traversing new things. Sure, there are ups and downs, but that's what being in a relationship is. Not being stationary to one type of lifestyle."

"You can have your own opinion, but-"

"It's selfish to assume only select people are fit to live in certain conditions, eat certain food-"

"I could simply  _tell_ you if you shut up for a second!"

Her rant was put on pause, I could see her putting herself between a bridge of argument and contemplation.

"If your reasoning is as bad as your temper, I'm into sure I want to hear it." She decided going with.

 _My_ temper?

A stern look crossed my previously docile features; I was done cooperating with her games, she wouldn't listen. "Calm down a minute, won't you?" I was tempted to roll to her side, but the air was too heated right now. I needed her to relax.

She only got more riled up. "You don't belong here, he says, I don't belong there, he says. According to your logic, everyone should eat, sleep and die in the same plac-"

"Shut up!"

She gets quiet and turns to the window.

We both knew this was going to go south. I had my morals, she had hers. I couldn't change her mind, but the least I could do was explain. 

"Have you ever had less than $20 to your name?"

She didn't turn. "Of course not."

"You would if you were with me. Have you ever been threatened, shot at, jumped because your article caught the wrong person's attention?" She rolls her eyes.

"Coming home just to do more dishes and dry clean, a small closet to fit at most 30 dresses out of your-"

"413." She sighed.

"Which proves my point. Do you understand now?"

Finally, she looked back at me. "It's not like the closet can't be remodled."

I shook my head. "But that's not what I want."

Lisa mimicked pity with her hands. "It's always what you want. What about me?"

"You have everything you could ever want."

"Not everything, it seems.." She stood up and collected her gloves and her belongings, slipping them on and stepped back into her heels. I didn't bother looking in her direction; I couldn't bring myself to do it. I should've known the evening would've escalated, I shouldn't have let her control my better judgment, I should've never let Miles make that phone call. He'd get an earful later, too.  
  
She trailed the door open, but her gloved hand stayed stationary on the handle. Her slim back was to me, and she spoke quietly, almost inaudible syllables: "..You don't think either of us could change?"

A lump sat in my throat, something about the way she said that. I wasn't sure what. It helped the quaking in my voice very little. "It doesn't seem so."  
  
She nodded, and walked the rest of the way out of the apartment; the door shut shortly after.  
  
In short, the evening had become an absolute shit show.

~

A/N- Oh gee, it's been like three months! I've had this chapter since February, so I've stopped making excuses now and have made a decent upload schedule! No more random Hiatus, every Monday if I'm lucky. I decided to change POV's. Should I change it?? Have a great day! ;>]


	4. Lightnin' Strikes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >   
>  Every boy wants a girl  
> He can trust to the very end  
> Baby, that's you
>> 
>> Won't you wait but 'til then?  
> When I see lips beggin' to be kissed (stop)  
> I can't stop (stop) I can't stop myself (stop, stop)
>> 
>> Lightning is striking again  
> Lightning is striking again
>>
>>> Miles was always right.  
  
There was a storm that night.  
  
Sometime in the twilight hour, a storm had collected up in the clouds above the tall, auburn apartments. The damp shower hit the brick and cemented pavement below like liquid hammers and nails. It wasn't irregular for a light layer of precipitation for where they lived, especially at night. But this wasn't just rain. It caused him to toss and turn in his slumber, fidgeting with a quirking of his brows and mouth. He felt uneasy, sleeping without rest.  
  
One couldn't make out most of what was muffled by the downpour, but what could be understood sounded like an argument across the now soaked garden of flowers. Broken glass. A scuffle.  
  
"No, please, _please!_ "  
  
A crack of lightning gave way to a wave of thunder, jolting the blond's spine up from the wheelchair more roughly than anticipated. His hands shot for the chair's handlebars. He was frantic; while his brain kept spinning from the rolling wave of sudden impact, his wide eyes searched the entire room for some sort of clarity like a deer in headlights. Briefly he shivered, stopping the search. He was now taking into consideration the chilly drops hitting the side of his face and the skin of his forearms.  
  
_The window_ , he thought.  
  
His head spun toward the open window, exposing more precipitation to pelt his face and now soaking wet hair. He looked up to find the window was open. It was ajar a few inches too much for comfort; he had woken up in a cold sweat-- literally.  
  
Lightning cracked from a neighborhood close by.  
  
The journalist gathered enough mental stability for the time being to wheel closer toward the mass of glass; he stretched up as high as he could to seal the water flying in from the breeze- _too high_ , he grunted in his head. He didn't recall anyone lifting the window that out-of-reach for him; had Lisa in spite, before departing? It looked too high up for her petite height. He had seen her leave. Had Miles? He looked at the front door. No, it was locked.  
  
Nothing was adding up and the pieces didn't fall in line. One thing was for sure though, his apartment was like hell had frozen over.  
  
Waylon made haste for the side of one of its wheels, latching its lock so that it wouldn't move. He inhaled sharply, hitched his good foot up on the seat of my chair. Gradually and slowly, he began to rise. He winced- he hadn't had to move that leg in weeks, or longer. Stiff, he concluded. He was surprised he didn't crumble right then and there- he didn't have time to question the sudden strength boost.

  
He held onto the handlebars for support, his limp foot acting virtually useless. He tested his faith and allowed a hand to let go, leaning the weight of his good foot to reach up as far as possible to graze the window sill's shaft. Waylon didn't get much height and his fingertips strained as is, touching only the handle before the great dead weight screamed for less tension in his aching joints. The blond exhaled impatiently, stumbling back down into the seat with a huff. It was times like these that he wished he hadn't let the accident happen. He cursed his landlord too, for not thinking of installing a hanging latch for people like the incapacitated- unfortunately, like him then.  
  
The gusts of wind only provoked more rain coming in, but the plus side was that he was at least awake now. A small feeling, that was now growing in him, wished he wasn't.  
  
When he made a second attempt, he got the right idea and stretched his arm to grab hold of a lone candle holder from the table. Waylon rose up, focusing on his goal to ignore the tension, the long object assisting to connect the distance as much to his ability as possible. It went into the handle bar's space where a hand should've gone and he used his lingering adrenaline rush to force down the window the remaining space.  
  
_Almost,_  he had the window almost halfway closed, a foot away from victory- that is until he took a curious glance out the window's glass.  
  
Waylon froze. He could hear his heartbeat starting a marathon in his ears, like a hammer pounding cloth.  
  
_A tall man, standing in a Block B apartment, blood on a bleach white dress shirt. His profile was turned away from the window, revealing only his back splattered in bloody handprints._  
  
Any sane individual would've rushed to get out of sight; not Waylon Park.  
  
No coherent thoughts came to his mind. Struggling to balance in the chair, the chill wind blowing in his damp baby blue pajamas, the wet tablecloth soaking the floorboards-- even the soundtrack of downpour was drowned out by meddling assumptions in the journalist's head.  
  
Who was that?  
(Your serial killer neighbor, surprise!)

  
What was going on?  
(Something you shouldn't be watching.)

  
Am I next?  
(Judging your rent, are you surprised?)

  
Am I awake? Is this another nightmare?

(Nightmares weren't usually this real.)

 

Lisa, wake me up. Tell me I'm dreaming, distract me.

(She had left earlier. After you chased her off.)

  
The man's back was bent forward, stalking over something under him like a hungry predator. Time played in slow motion as the anonymous man's right arm reeled back slowly, probably inspecting his work, his prize. It revealed a stained kitchen knife in his grasp. His other limb released something, then went limp by his side. He didn't even look like he was panicked, or even disturbed; he looked calm. Satisfied.  
  
_Rested shoulders. Steady movements._  
  
He was turning around.  
  
Instincts kicked in- he didn't miss a beat- he took his remaining strength to seal the window closed completely, climbing back into his previous position of sleep, eyes clamped shut. Hopefully, he didn't see his antics before the blond could play sleep. Or dead.   
  
_The curtains, damn!_  He swore to himself. How could he have forgotten? In his haste, he had forgotten about the curtains. Maybe he still had time.  
  
Rushing for the shades, Waylon practically leaped for a handful of cloth dragging low enough to his reach. That's when their eyes met again.  _Again._  
  
'Anonymous B' after turning had stood there, across the mass of waterlogged flowers, frozen. He had been caught.

His features looked etched into stone, slowly calculating, and taking in the situation with his eyes. He was so stiff, he swore a strike of lightning couldn't move him from the spot. Something in the blond couldn't stop looking either, but it wasn't shock or admiration-- it was curiosity. He stood, making no attempt to move. Waylon thought by seeing a witness, he would make an attempt to conceal his unsightly appearance. He made no such attempt. Why? Why wasn't the journalist shutting the blinds? Why had Waylon's heartbeat not translated to an escape; why had his boldness peaked his interest?   
  
As he inspected him further, the front of the shirt had even more crimson pools spread than the back. It made uneasiness settle over him, he squirmed at the sight of it. From the far distance, Waylon was sure that man couldn't see Waylon thoroughly. Yet, his gaze regarded him with interest. Had he remembered him from earlier before dinner? His face, it shifted as if he'd heard the thought. Surely he'd felt the same. Was it shame? Empathy? The same look of a child being scolded. It was almost.. apologetic?   
  
His face.  
  
_A small hand creeps up the man's cheek, holding a dense peeling knife._  
  
_His corner of his mouth is slit. He roars._  
  
Whatever, whoever he had in there, they were still kicking.  
  
_He twists around promptly, ducks out of sight._  
  
Green eyes.  
  
Waylon's grip tightened on the curtain.

_The woman from earlier, the blonde that had been with him, emerges with shoulders heaving. Eyes blotched with messy black mascara. She was sobbing._

His heart was beating in his ears like a marching band, what could he do? Fate had already claimed her, as soon as she walked into that apartment she was doomed from the start. How she'd tested his patience earlier, needy and demanding attention. The fly had landed in the sticky web, and the spider had come to claim its prize. 

He had a voice. His gaze slid to the black-corded phone. But.. did he want to grab the phone? Something compelled him to forget about it. What if he made the wrong decision? What if he was doomed to be next in line? Observers didn't interfere: they spectated.

 _She goes to speak, perhaps to scream,_  
_A hand wraps around her slim neck-_  he could imagine his own noose coiling around his throat- _another from behind with the stained kitchen knife. It plunges through her lower abdomen like a fish into water. It soaks her powder-white dress in seconds._  His heart drops; the noose tightened, his gasp came out as a choked gag.  
  
_She drops the knife, the sharpness leaves her eyes. Her emerald jewels shine no more._  
  
They both slumped to the floor, and before said perpetrator got the chance to get back up, he took the opportunity to draw the curtains closed as fast as possible, until the light was shut out completely.  
  
His chest heaved burning intakes of air through his nose, knuckles white on the now freezing metal bars of the chair- the water in his hair dripped like a soggy mop that gave his arms goosebumps. The room has stilled, the rain calmed but still thumped on the window's glass. He tried to keep down something close to a scream hiking up his throat.  
  
Miles was always right.

~

A/N- Another chapter up. Triple upload incoming, since I forgot about Monday ^^; Thanks for supporting the story! 

Have a great day! ｡^‿^｡


	5. Dream a Little Dream of Me/ Nightmare

" ~~XXX!~~ " The little girl with blonde hair called, wooden basket in hand. She had found him in a small meadow, many miles away from the boy in the blue shirt's home. He had gotten lost and as a result, was sobbing in the grass and hugging his scraped knees close to his chest. She bent down to his level in her Easter Sunday dress and frowned. "Are you alright? Your mommy was looking for you."

No response. He only looked up to realize how late it was: it was beginning to get dark. Luckily they were in an open area, so they could see the dirt road stretching far away in the direction to lead them home. 

The blonde girl saw his bruises and like magic summoned band-aids and laid them on his 'ouchies'. She kissed her own tiny hand and patted her patient's bandages. "All better?" He silently nodded. The boy wiped his face with his wrist, evenly distributed between his eyes and his nose. If she was even the tiniest bit repulsed, she didn't vocalize it.

"Well, come on! We gotta go home." She stood back up and grabbed his hand hastily to lead him, but he tugged back. She turned back to him in surprise, and frowned, "What?" He tugged at the corner of his own shirt, looking down at his shoes awkwardly. She bobbed her head to the side innocently, "..You don't want to go home?" He shook his head but didn't look up. The little boy wasn't crying anymore, but more leftover tears rolled down his face as he sniffled. "Okay. No more crying though, okay?" She stated bossily. He nodded, and she led him over to a single tree. It was a willow tree with many vines that hung like a curtain over the two of them. "I know what'll cheer you up. Stay here, okay?" He only tugged at the grass under him, so she stepped out of their nature-made fort and into the meadow again.

From nearby, the little girl raced into the bed of plants rolling around and bubbling with laughter. The boy was too busy being occupied with fiddling with his shirt's buttons. 

When he couldn't hear any shifting of the grass, he finally lifted his head; there she was, panting in front of him. She handed him a handful of daffodils. They were bright blue, and odd color for daffodils, he thought to himself. Despite this, he smiled and thanked her. 

"Smell them," she encouraged. He put the cluster to his nose, they had the pleasant smell of pollen that was sweet and made him feel a little bit better. They made his nose itch, sure, but he didn't mind. Why bother her when she was having so much fun?

He didn't ask why.

The next trip running into the ample of flowers, she had brought a bunch of daisies. They were an indigo shade with white polka dots. The boy stated his thanks, but less emphasized than the previous time. He could see that she was more exhausted and her hands had rosy bruises layered on them and her Easter dress had grass stains. But, she was just as elated as before. These flowers smelled like pears and oranges and syrup. Again his nose tingled, this time he sneezed.

He didn't ask why.

Lastly, she walked into the labyrinth of flowers- no,  _stalked,_ and limped back to the boy in the blue shirt. Despite the way her legs dragged in the grass and dirt, she was grinning just as wide. A single rose was in her grasp, an ashy grey color that made it look dead. It was losing its petals every time she bounced on her heels. 

"Smell them," she smiled, "smell! Aren't they darling?" 

He did smell the rose; he expected it to smell like ash or like a fireplace. Instead, it smelled like good things: chocolate, waffles, his mother, a bright sunny day. It was vivid, and intoxicated his senses so much it made him dizzy. He realized then that something was off. Flowers weren't supposed to smell like this.

He tried pushing it away, but her encouraging became more persistent. "Smell! Smell! Smell!" It was more similar to chanting the longer it went on. The boy shook his head feverishly, and that made her upset. She started crying, and in rash movements she moved all the flowers in her basket to smother his face. 

"Please, at least think about it. Take one- take them all! Please?" He couldn't deflect the onslaught of her palms against his face, his arms didn't respond to it. He found they were unable to move, slack and stuck in place at his sides. He couldn't speak, his mouth felt like it was being filled with cotton. The scent was all too intense and was almost overbearing: Thanksgiving dinner, the taste of cut apples, pie out of the oven, strawberries, popsicles on a hot day-- it was too real.

"I can't breathe," he pleaded, "I can't breathe." The boy in the blue shirt felt weighed down like an anchor, like a tree in a tsunami. His nostrils burned and flared in vain, he coughed and no air filled his lungs after attempts to inhale; it was as if he was pantomiming breathing. His eyes spilled tears as the blonde girl screeched like a broken record, "Please, smell them! You promised!" She was yelling, and his symptoms were getting worse. He felt light-headed and his stomach did flips and somersaults; his vision became warped and hazed with swirls of different colors, waves of royal blue and pineapple yellow that could make you seasick. Her voice integrated into an echo in his head, in his skull and outside it. "Waylon," she chirped, "Waylon! Waylon!"

Waylon now had the sudden realization of how distracted he'd become by the flowers and voices.

 

He was suffocating.


	6. Recap #1 (1-5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1st recap of Daybreak Alley. Confusion about plot, questions, and criticisms for the first five chapters can be put under here. Thanks for 300+ hits and kudos! ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

**Mack the Knife (1)**

**\---**

_Waylon is a homebody with a quirk: window watching. Miles Upsher, the farm-boy detective lectures him about being indoors and a love interest._

'Mack the Knife' by Bobby Darin:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dyIeNYt_Vvs 

**Mona Lisa (2)**

**\---**

_Enter Lisa Park! Waylon contemplates her wants vs. his own, and Miles is suspicious of the tailor in Block B._

'Mona Lisa' by Nat King Cole:

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cR7EP6sXWFg

**Goodnight Sweetheart, Goodnight (3)**

**\---**

_Dinner time! Lisa and Waylon talk over dinner, and about something else?_

'Goodnight Sweetheart, Goodnight' by The Spaniels:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hrEKPkCnjeg

**Lightnin' Strikes (4)**

**\---**

_Waylon's a witness._

'Lightnin' Strikes' by Lou Christie:

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LyRqdzF8swY

**Dream a Little Dream of Me/Nightmare (5)**

**\---**

_Waylon has a vision._

'Dream a Little Dream of Me' by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8


End file.
